seen from a balloon, moonstone would have looked like a noah’s ark town set out in the sand and lightly shaded by gray-green tamarisks and cottonwoods. a few people were trying to make soft maples grow in their turfed lawns, but the fashion of planting incongruous trees from the north atlantic states had not become general then, and the frail, brightly painted desert town was shaded by the light-reflecting, wind-loving trees of the desert, whose roots are always seeking water and whose leaves are always talking about it, making the sound of rain. the long porous roots of the cottonwood are irrepressible. they break into the wells as rats do into granaries, and thieve the water.

the long street which connected moonstone with the depot settlement traversed in its course a considerable stretch of rough open country, staked out in lots but not built up at all, a weedy hiatus between the town and the railroad. when you set out along this street to go to the station, you noticed that the houses became smaller and farther apart, until they ceased altogether, and the board sidewalk continued its uneven course through sunflower patches, until you reached the solitary, new brick catholic church. the church stood there because the land was given to the parish by the man who owned the adjoining waste lots, in the hope of making them more salable—“farrier’s addition,” this patch of prairie was called in the clerk’s office. an eighth of a mile beyond the church was a washout, a deep sand-gully, where the board sidewalk became a bridge for perhaps fifty feet. just beyond the gully was old uncle billy beemer’s grove,—twelve town lots set out in fine, well-grown cottonwood trees, delightful to look upon, or to listen to, as they swayed and rippled in the wind. uncle billy had been one of the most worthless old drunkards who ever sat on a store box and told filthy stories. one night he played hide-and-seek with a switch engine and got his sodden brains knocked out. but his grove, the one creditable thing he had ever done in his life, rustled on. beyond this grove the houses of the depot settlement began, and the naked board walk, that had run in out of the sunflowers, again became a link between human dwellings.

one afternoon, late in the summer, dr. howard archie was fighting his way back to town along this walk through a blinding sandstorm, a silk handkerchief tied over his mouth. he had been to see a sick woman down in the depot settlement, and he was walking because his ponies had been out for a hard drive that morning.

as he passed the catholic church he came upon thea and thor. thea was sitting in a child’s express wagon, her feet out behind, kicking the wagon along and steering by the tongue. thor was on her lap and she held him with one arm. he had grown to be a big cub of a baby, with a constitutional grievance, and he had to be continually amused. thea took him philosophically, and tugged and pulled him about, getting as much fun as she could under her encumbrance. her hair was blowing about her face, and her eyes were squinting so intently at the uneven board sidewalk in front of her that she did not see the doctor until he spoke to her.

“look out, thea. you’ll steer that youngster into the ditch.”

the wagon stopped. thea released the tongue, wiped her hot, sandy face, and pushed back her hair. “oh, no, i won’t! i never ran off but once, and then he didn’t get anything but a bump. he likes this better than a baby buggy, and so do i.”

“are you going to kick that cart all the way home?”

“of course. we take long trips; wherever there is a sidewalk. it’s no good on the road.”

“looks to me like working pretty hard for your fun. are you going to be busy to-night? want to make a call with me? spanish johnny’s come home again, all used up. his wife sent me word this morning, and i said i’d go over to see him to-night. he’s an old chum of yours, isn’t he?”

“oh, i’m glad. she’s been crying her eyes out. when did he come?”

“last night, on number six. paid his fare, they tell me. too sick to beat it. there’ll come a time when that boy won’t get back, i’m afraid. come around to my office about eight o’clock,—and you needn’t bring that!”

thor seemed to understand that he had been insulted, for he scowled and began to kick the side of the wagon, shouting, “go-go, go-go!” thea leaned forward and grabbed the wagon tongue. dr. archie stepped in front of her and blocked the way. “why don’t you make him wait? what do you let him boss you like that for?”

“if he gets mad he throws himself, and then i can’t do anything with him. when he’s mad he’s lots stronger than me, aren’t you, thor?” thea spoke with pride, and the idol was appeased. he grunted approvingly as his sister began to kick rapidly behind her, and the wagon rattled off and soon disappeared in the flying currents of sand.

that evening dr. archie was seated in his office, his desk chair tilted back, reading by the light of a hot coal-oil lamp. all the windows were open, but the night was breathless after the sandstorm, and his hair was moist where it hung over his forehead. he was deeply engrossed in his book and sometimes smiled thoughtfully as he read. when thea kronborg entered quietly and slipped into a seat, he nodded, finished his paragraph, inserted a bookmark, and rose to put the book back into the case. it was one out of the long row of uniform volumes on the top shelf.

“nearly every time i come in, when you’re alone, you’re reading one of those books,” thea remarked thoughtfully. “they must be very nice.”

the doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still in his hand. “they aren’t exactly books, thea,” he said seriously. “they’re a city.”

“a history, you mean?”

“yes, and no. they’re a history of a live city, not a dead one. a frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the kinds he knew. and he got them nearly all in, i guess. yes, it’s very interesting. you’ll like to read it some day, when you’re grown up.”

thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, “a distinguished provincial in paris.”

“it doesn’t sound very interesting.”

“perhaps not, but it is.” the doctor scrutinized her broad face, low enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. “yes,” he went on with some satisfaction, “i think you’ll like them some day. you’re always curious about people, and i expect this man knew more about people than anybody that ever lived.”

“city people or country people?”

“both. people are pretty much the same everywhere.”

“oh, no, they’re not. the people who go through in the dining-car aren’t like us.”

“what makes you think they aren’t, my girl? their clothes?”

thea shook her head. “no, it’s something else. i don’t know.” her eyes shifted under the doctor’s searching gaze and she glanced up at the row of books. “how soon will i be old enough to read them?”

“soon enough, soon enough, little girl.” the doctor patted her hand and looked at her index finger. “the nail’s coming all right, isn’t it? but i think that man makes you practice too much. you have it on your mind all the time.” he had noticed that when she talked to him she was always opening and shutting her hands. “it makes you nervous.”

“no, he don’t,” thea replied stubbornly, watching dr. archie return the book to its niche.

he took up a black leather case, put on his hat, and they went down the dark stairs into the street. the summer moon hung full in the sky. for the time being, it was the great fact in the world. beyond the edge of the town the plain was so white that every clump of sage stood out distinct from the sand, and the dunes looked like a shining lake. the doctor took off his straw hat and carried it in his hand as they walked toward mexican town, across the sand.

north of pueblo, mexican settlements were rare in colorado then. this one had come about accidentally. spanish johnny was the first mexican who came to moonstone. he was a painter and decorator, and had been working in trinidad, when ray kennedy told him there was a “boom” on in moonstone, and a good many new buildings were going up. a year after johnny settled in moonstone, his cousin, famos serreños, came to work in the brickyard; then serreños’ cousins came to help him. during the strike, the master mechanic put a gang of mexicans to work in the roundhouse. the mexicans had arrived so quietly, with their blankets and musical instruments, that before moonstone was awake to the fact, there was a mexican quarter; a dozen families or more.

as thea and the doctor approached the ’dobe houses, they heard a guitar, and a rich barytone voice—that of famos serreños—singing “la golandrina.” all the mexican houses had neat little yards, with tamarisk hedges and flowers, and walks bordered with shells or whitewashed stones. johnny’s house was dark. his wife, mrs. tellamantez, was sitting on the doorstep, combing her long, blue-black hair. (mexican women are like the spartans; when they are in trouble, in love, under stress of any kind, they comb and comb their hair.) she rose without embarrassment or apology, comb in hand, and greeted the doctor.

“good-evening; will you go in?” she asked in a low, musical voice. “he is in the back room. i will make a light.” she followed them indoors, lit a candle and handed it to the doctor, pointing toward the bedroom. then she went back and sat down on her doorstep.

dr. archie and thea went into the bedroom, which was dark and quiet. there was a bed in the corner, and a man was lying on the clean sheets. on the table beside him was a glass pitcher, half-full of water. spanish johnny looked younger than his wife, and when he was in health he was very handsome: slender, gold-colored, with wavy black hair, a round, smooth throat, white teeth, and burning black eyes. his profile was strong and severe, like an indian’s. what was termed his “wildness” showed itself only in his feverish eyes and in the color that burned on his tawny cheeks. that night he was a coppery green, and his eyes were like black holes. he opened them when the doctor held the candle before his face.

“mi testa!” he muttered, “mi testa,” doctor. “la fiebre!” seeing the doctor’s companion at the foot of the bed, he attempted a smile. “muchacha!” he exclaimed deprecatingly.

dr. archie stuck a thermometer into his mouth. “now, thea, you can run outside and wait for me.”

thea slipped noiselessly through the dark house and joined mrs. tellamantez. the somber mexican woman did not seem inclined to talk, but her nod was friendly. thea sat down on the warm sand, her back to the moon, facing mrs. tellamantez on her doorstep, and began to count the moon flowers on the vine that ran over the house. mrs. tellamantez was always considered a very homely woman. her face was of a strongly marked type not sympathetic to americans. such long, oval faces, with a full chin, a large, mobile mouth, a high nose, are not uncommon in spain. mrs. tellamantez could not write her name, and could read but little. her strong nature lived upon itself. she was chiefly known in moonstone for her forbearance with her incorrigible husband.

nobody knew exactly what was the matter with johnny, and everybody liked him. his popularity would have been unusual for a white man, for a mexican it was unprecedented. his talents were his undoing. he had a high, uncertain tenor voice, and he played the mandolin with exceptional skill. periodically he went crazy. there was no other way to explain his behavior. he was a clever workman, and, when he worked, as regular and faithful as a burro. then some night he would fall in with a crowd at the saloon and begin to sing. he would go on until he had no voice left, until he wheezed and rasped. then he would play his mandolin furiously, and drink until his eyes sank back into his head. at last, when he was put out of the saloon at closing time, and could get nobody to listen to him, he would run away—along the railroad track, straight across the desert. he always managed to get aboard a freight somewhere. once beyond denver, he played his way southward from saloon to saloon until he got across the border. he never wrote to his wife; but she would soon begin to get newspapers from la junta, albuquerque, chihuahua, with marked paragraphs announcing that juan tellamantez and his wonderful mandolin could be heard at the jack rabbit grill, or the pearl of cadiz saloon. mrs. tellamantez waited and wept and combed her hair. when he was completely wrung out and burned up,—all but destroyed,—her juan always came back to her to be taken care of,—once with an ugly knife wound in the neck, once with a finger missing from his right hand,—but he played just as well with three fingers as he had with four.

public sentiment was lenient toward johnny, but everybody was disgusted with mrs. tellamantez for putting up with him. she ought to discipline him, people said; she ought to leave him; she had no self-respect. in short, mrs. tellamantez got all the blame. even thea thought she was much too humble. to-night, as she sat with her back to the moon, looking at the moon flowers and mrs. tellamantez’s somber face, she was thinking that there is nothing so sad in the world as that kind of patience and resignation. it was much worse than johnny’s craziness. she even wondered whether it did not help to make johnny crazy. people had no right to be so passive and resigned. she would like to roll over and over in the sand and screech at mrs. tellamantez. she was glad when the doctor came out.

the mexican woman rose and stood respectful and expectant. the doctor held his hat in his hand and looked kindly at her.

“same old thing, mrs. tellamantez. he’s no worse than he’s been before. i’ve left some medicine. don’t give him anything but toast water until i see him again. you’re a good nurse; you’ll get him out.” dr. archie smiled encouragingly. he glanced about the little garden and wrinkled his brows. “i can’t see what makes him behave so. he’s killing himself, and he’s not a rowdy sort of fellow. can’t you tie him up someway? can’t you tell when these fits are coming on?”

mrs. tellamantez put her hand to her forehead. “the saloon, doctor, the excitement; that is what makes him. people listen to him, and it excites him.”

the doctor shook his head. “maybe. he’s too much for my calculations. i don’t see what he gets out of it.”

“he is always fooled,”—the mexican woman spoke rapidly and tremulously, her long under lip quivering.

“he is good at heart, but he has no head. he fools himself. you do not understand in this country, you are progressive. but he has no judgment, and he is fooled.” she stooped quickly, took up one of the white conch-shells that bordered the walk, and, with an apologetic inclination of her head, held it to dr. archie’s ear. “listen, doctor. you hear something in there? you hear the sea; and yet the sea is very far from here. you have judgment, and you know that. but he is fooled. to him, it is the sea itself. a little thing is big to him.” she bent and placed the shell in the white row, with its fellows. thea took it up softly and pressed it to her own ear. the sound in it startled her; it was like something calling one. so that was why johnny ran away. there was something awe-inspiring about mrs. tellamantez and her shell.

thea caught dr. archie’s hand and squeezed it hard as she skipped along beside him back toward moonstone. she went home, and the doctor went back to his lamp and his book. he never left his office until after midnight. if he did not play whist or pool in the evening, he read. it had become a habit with him to lose himself.